


Stasis

by notarelic



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Road Trips, and this fic is fully about gueimei, galolio is very tertiary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notarelic/pseuds/notarelic
Summary: Gueira has trouble letting go of the past.
Relationships: Gueira/Meis (Promare), Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Comments: 24
Kudos: 97





	Stasis

**Author's Note:**

> gueimei road trip indulgence
> 
> i know in da movie there was a desert right outside the city, but this fic follows the actual geography of the united states. promepolis is based on nyc

“A road trip?” Lio asks, eyes focused on the screen in front of him.

“Yup. Cross country!” Gueira says with a grin. He and Meis stand in front of Lio in his Burning Rescue office, hands tucked into each other’s back pocket.

Lio stops typing. He spins around in his cushy wheeled chair to scrutinize them fully. “Why?”

“Fun and adventure!”

“How long?”

“A few weeks. Until we get tired,” Meis says.

Lio gapes at them. “Your jobs?”

“I quit!” Gueira says with an impish grin. “I was gettin’ tired of that place anyway. You can only sling burgers for so long, y’know?”

Lio shakes his head. “I should’ve expected as much.” He regards Meis sharply, more disappointed. “And you?”

Meis squirms. “Boss…”

“He got fired!”

Lio’s jaw drops. “You’re joking.”

“Apparently my voice is too ‘unfriendly’ for a call center. I got too many bad reviews,” Meis says with a sigh. “It’s instant termination.”

“You two are unbelievable.” Lio wipes a hand down his face. “How are you funding this? You are _not_ going to be late on rent when _my_ name is cosigned on your lease.”

“Don’t worry Boss, it’s all covered. I haven’t spent my reparation paycheck yet,” Gueira says, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

The fight for Burnish reparations was an unnecessarily long and drawn-out affair. Lio had spearheaded the movement, of course — but Meis and Gueira were on the front lines too, tangled in the red tape of filing claims and court documents; the small and tedious details Lio was too busy to tackle himself. It was the least they could do. He was still their Boss, and he was still fighting for them.

For all the struggle it took to get ex-Burnish v. Foresight Foundation to civil court, Kray’s lawyers didn’t put up much of a fight. Kray didn’t futz around with hiring better attorneys, so it seemed like he didn’t care either. He no longer has a use for money anyway, locked up and no next-of-kin to bequeath it to.

They settled two days into trial. Every Burnish tagged and catalogued on the Parnassus received a nice lump sum from the Foresight estate.

Lio had invested his money, persuaded by his Burning Rescue cohorts. Meis spent his in its entirety on a new car. A vintage Mustang, the same make and model he had in high school; blue, with white stripes running down the center. It was a sexy little thing, with the black leather seats and raised wheels. Gueira couldn’t judge how he spent his check, after all the suffering they’d endured together. Good financial decision or not, Meis (and every other Burnish) earned the right to be a little selfish.

Gueira — for all his rashness and impulsivity — has kept his squirreled away, uninvested and unspent like he’s a child of the Depression era.

“You’re going to spend it all on one vacation?” Lio lifts a judgmental eyebrow. “Mine has increased by four percent since investing it. Just saying.”

“Nah, vacation sounds _way_ better.”

Lio ignores Gueira. “Meis, you’re so smart,” he says while rubbing his temples. “I don’t understand how you become so dumb when it comes to him.”

Meis shrugs. “Folie à deux.”

“It’s still a mystery to me how Mad Burnish didn’t crumble before I came along. You two just follow each other without question, don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Meis elbows Gueira in the side like it’ll make it less true.

“This wasn’t just his idea, Boss,” Meis defends their questionable decision. “I want to go too.”

“You guys are despicable.” Lio shakes his head. “But I guess that’s why you work. Have fun, you two.”

* * *

Lio’s blessing in pocket, they head over to the local greasy spoon to flesh out the finer details. They frequent this establishment for the laid-back atmosphere. The food is mediocre at best, but the ambiance makes up for it; neon signs illuminate the checkered floor in reds and blues, which might bias Gueira’s opinion of the place.

Gueira scribbles down a packing list and Meis prepays rent from his phone while they wait for their food. A map sprawls across the table, and Meis circles certain locations in pen. Gueira can’t see any of the city names or highway numbers upside down, but that’s okay. It’s not like he knows how to drive, anyway.

“We could take I-80 west.” Meis slides a slender finger across shiny paper. “It goes all the way to the Pacific.”

“I’ve seen enough ocean in my life,” Gueira grumbles as a waitress slides food in front of them. “You’re overthinking this,” he says once she’s out of earshot. “I think we should drive down backroads ’til we end up somewhere we like. You know, like old times!”

Meis rolls his eyes through an exaggerated slurp of strawberry milkshake. “Sure. But we can still have a rough plan.”

“That’s no fun though.” Gueira’s shirt clings to the back of the sticky booth when he leans forward to take a bite of egg’s benedict. Yolk and hollandaise squirt out and run down his fingers and plop right onto Michigan.

“Sorry Boss,” he sputters around bread and egg and ham. He grabs napkins to reverently wipe the map. A greasy dark splotch lingers on the paper.

Meis wrinkles his nose at the mess. “Do you want to see Detroit?”

Gueira stashes soiled napkins behind the condiment rack. “Eh? Not really. Boss never painted the greatest picture of the place.”

“Well, what _do_ you want to see?” Meis asks. Direct, certainly — but still undemanding and ever-patient.

Gueira suddenly regrets being difficult, a rush of shame blooming in his solar plexus. “Dunno,” he says, head ducked down. “Desert.”

Meis nods in his periphery. “We can do that.”

Gueira is grateful Meis doesn’t press any further. He’s great like that; emotionally intelligent and excellent at reading the room to the point everyone else seems illiterate.

“We’re definitely hitting Texas,” Meis continues, unfazed. “You ready for that?”

Gueira grins at the redirection. “Of course. I’m pretty good at wranglin’ cowboys, after all.”

* * *

They take their time drifting westbound across the United States, passing through the bulk of the midwest within a week’s time. Cities become fewer and far between, replaced with the type of rural towns where chickens outnumber humans.

Meis enjoys himself; these locales are chock full of those sprawling antique stores he’s so fond of. The trunk and backseat are stuffed with vintage items they can’t even use because _it’ll mess with the patina._ Gueira doesn’t understand it, but it makes Meis happy so he gladly lets him spend his money.

If he’s being honest with himself, he thinks it’s kind of sexy when Meis goes on tangents and lets loose his specialty knowledge. It’s a win-win situation, really.

Gueira doesn’t mind the small towns either. Fewer the amount of people in an area directly correlates to a higher level of idiotic activity. In Ohio they watch locals take turns jousting each other off dirt bikes. In Missouri they discover a bar with a cage on the inside, floor numbered like a roulette table. They’re already pretty sloshed when someone brings out The Chicken. They lose a small fortune taking bets on which square they thought the chicken would take a shit on.

They reach a point where the towns get smaller and further apart still. Gueira has seen enough cornfields to last him a lifetime.

Gueira pulls at his seatbelt dramatically. “Meis, I’m going stir crazy over here.”

“We'll stop for the night soon, quit the theatrics.”

“Ugh.” Gueira flops back into his seat. He lazily scans the scenery out the window until a sign catches his eye. “Cawker City,” Gueira reads with squinted eyes. “Home of the world’s largest ball of twine.”

“No,” Meis says. “It can’t possibly be the world’s largest. There’s no way.”

“I believe it. What else do they have to do out here besides break pointless Guinness records?”

“Dance and drink and screw?”

Meis keeps driving. He ignores Gueira’s pointed stare at the side of his face. He scratches his cheek. He sighs heavily. “You really want to see the ball of twine?”

“Come on. Babe. Please?”

Meis grumbles under his breath but turns where the next sign directs.

Gueira rolls down the windows to appreciate the nature around them. Promepolis is great, but it can’t compare to miles of untouched land, so overwhelmingly warm and green and bright.

They find the attraction quickly — the main street only spans a couple blocks. There’s ample room to park.

They enter the pavilion where the world’s largest ball of twine is sheltered. They observe it quietly. Meis tilts his head to the side to appreciate it in a new perspective. Gueira takes a few steps around it, rubbing his chin.

“This is it?”

“You expected more?” Meis says. He sits in one of the benches surrounding the ball.

“I dunno—!” Gueira starts. He gestures with outstretched arms, all-encompassing of the structure in front of him. “I thought it’d be bigger.”

“You think someone should make a bigger ball of twine?”

“No, I—“

“Maybe we should come back for the annual ‘twine-a-thon’ and watch it grow,” Meis says, eyes trained on an informational pamphlet.

Gueira flops down next to Meis. “This sucks.”

Meis slaps a hand on his knee and shakes it around in a playful gesture of consolation.

“I know. I know! Shut up,” Gueira huffs.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You know you say stuff with your eyes. See! There you go again,” Gueira points at his rolling eyes.

“All right, all right. I get it.” Meis shoves Gueira’s leg away from him with enough force his knees knock together.

Gueira folds his arms. “Things are so boring nowadays.” He side-eyes Meis who is side-eyeing him back. They’re on the same page. After thriving on anarchy for the better half of the last decade, the mundanity of normal life doesn’t necessarily spark the same zest. “Fuck me for thinking a giant ball of yarn would be interesting, I guess.”

“It’s almost 20,000 pounds. That’s kind of interesting.”

“Stop trying to humor me. The ball of twine sucks and we both know it.”

“Yeah, it does. It’s probably the most interesting thing in Kansas though.” Meis smacks Gueira’s thigh and stands. “When in doubt, do as the locals do. Wanna get piss drunk and fuck at a motel?”

Gueira sighs. “Babe, you're so much better at making plans."

* * *

“Lio!” Galo calls from the foyer. “You’ve got mail from Meis and Gueira!”

Lio shuffles in and greedily snatches the envelope from Galo’s hands. “Ah, good. I was worried, I haven’t heard from them in a week.”

Lio tears into the envelope with his thumbnail, trails of jagged paper cropping up in its wake. Galo rests his chin in the crook of Lio’s neck, content to read over his shoulder.

“A postcard?” Galo says, eyeing the small card Lio pulls out.

“‘To Boss: Wish you were here,’” Lio reads aloud. “That’s all they wrote?” He turns the postcard over in his hands.

“‘Greetings from Cawker City, Kansas. Home of the world’s largest ball of twine.’”

“Kansas? What are they doing in Kansas?”

“That’s the most surprising part of that sentence for you?” Lio shakes his head, a fond smile gracing his lips. “I have no idea, but I’m sure they’re up to no good.”

Lio pins it to the fridge with a Burning Rescue magnet (limited edition) so he can read his friends’ message whenever he passes by.

* * *

Farmland and deciduous trees give way to towering red cliffs, ruddy sand and dry yellow brush. Meis turns off the highway onto a two-way road. Civilization falls away. Their surroundings grow more barren by the mile.

“Where even are we?” Gueira asks, face pressed against the glass of the passenger window.

“I don’t know. Southwest.”

“You haven’t been reading the signs?”

“Have you?”

“No, I’m looking at cacti!”

“Yeah,” Meis says, “and I’m looking at the road.”

“Hey, we better stop up here and get gas,” Gueira says, pointing through the windshield at the small fill station barely visible in the horizon. “How much we got?”

“Quarter of a tank,” Meis answers. “You’re right. We better not chance it.”

It becomes apparent this station will not be the reprieve they hoped for — dilapidated, boarded up, abandoned. The closer they get, the worse it becomes; two pumps, outdated and rusted over, metal canopy overhead battered and unstable. Several sections of the convenience store roof are torn off.

“Maybe the pumps still work,” Gueira says.

Meis pulls into the dusty lot. Rippled sand covers concrete, piled up in miniature dunes from wind. Meis parks on a slight incline. The car rocks backwards when he lets off the brakes.

They sit in silence for a few moments. Gueira drums his fingers on his knees.

“I don’t have high hopes,” Meis says, and opens the door.

Meis fiddles with his wallet chain with one hand. The other pushes buttons and smacks the side of the pump with a flat palm. He curses at it before he sticks his head through the open driver’s side window. “Yeah, this pump’s done for. I’ll check the other one, but I think we gotta move on.”

Gueira nods at Meis' turned back. He looks at the decrepit convenience store in front of them. He looks back to Meis. If his frustrated kick is a tell, he’s not having luck with the second pump.

He swings the passenger door open and steps out, chalky red dirt flying up around his boots and clinging to his pants.

Meis turns, startled by the door slamming. “Babe?”

“Maybe there’s gas cans inside?” It’s a cheap excuse. Meis quirks an eyebrow. Gueira whistles as he shambles across the lot, unwilling to explain his inexplicable attraction to the derelict building. “You comin’ or what?”

Meis shakes his head and locks of hair waterfall over his shoulder. Hands in pocket, he follows.

Gueira grins and ducks through the shattered glass-paned doors. He bows and extends his hand for Meis to take, to use for extra balance as he crouches through as well. They dust themselves off and assess the room.

The wreckage inside is a mirror image of the destruction outside. The place is ransacked, shelves toppled over and leaning on each other, glass and wood shattered and splintered over the floor in kaleidoscopic disarray. The store has been looted and looted again, storage area busted open and cleared out. Fluorescent bulbs overhead are either shattered or missing, and the room is darkened. A few streams of sunlight shine through holes in the roof, casting rays on the floor and highlighting dust in the air. Animals probably live in here.

Gueira loves it so much.

They both fall back onto habit and start searching the place. Gueira stumbles across an abandoned can of Monster in the corner, top rounded with age. He picks it up to test its weight. It’s full.

“Sweet!” Gueira cheers. He cracks the tab open and a monumental build-up of gas releases in an extended _psshhhh_. He starts chugging.

“Gueira,” Meis says across the room. “What’s the expiration date on that?”

Gueira burps and wipes his lips. “Soda doesn’t go bad, dummy. It’s just chemicals isn’t it?”

Meis wrinkles his nose.

Gueira swings his legs over the counter and hops over. Hell yeah, he’s still got it. He grins at Meis, hoping he didn’t miss that sick parkour.

“You know there’s a side door, right?” Meis joins him behind the counter through that very door.

Gueira surveys the barren cigarette display. “Damn, I’m surprised these are still here,” he says, plucking a pack off the row.

“Of course thieves didn’t even want the Newports.”

Gueira has already torn into the pack and pulled out two. He slides one between his lips, holds the other out to Meis.

“Didn’t we quit?” Meis says, but takes the offering without hesitation. They lean in close enough for the ends to bump together, and Gueira snaps his fingers between them on reflex.

“Oh yeah,” Gueira huffs around the cigarette dangling off his lips. “Got a light?”

“No.” They stare at each other. And then they’re pillaging the counter in a frenzy, emptying out cabinets and upturning drawers.

“Find anything?” Gueira asks, rifling through a box.

“Not yet— Ah ah ah!” Meis brandishes his prize; a beaten up lighter, stashed away far behind the counter — one for a cashier’s personal use rather than store merchandise. Meis flicks it to life. They huddle over the weak flame before it fizzles out, the last of its juice sacrificed for the deep drags they take. They slide to the floor with a slow exhale. They lean against the wall and ride out the nicotine high.

Gueira lolls his head to the side to smirk at Meis, buzzed and relaxed. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm, yeah,” Meis agrees. “Back when Boss would nick a carton and we’d smoke a pack each? Pretty sure if the Promare didn’t heal us we’d have cancer by now.”

Gueira snorts. “Our lungs would be fried, I bet.” He takes another drag, hyperaware of the way smoke coats the back of his throat. He pushes out a smoke ring at Meis, a time-honored tradition that guarantees a punch to the arm.

“I actually meant before Boss,” Gueira says after a moment. “Before Mad Burnish, even.” His free hand skims over Meis’ leg. “Back when it was just us.”

“Oh.” Eyes follow Gueira’s hand trailing up his thigh, flick up to take in the wreckage around them. “Yeah. It does.”

Before Mad Burnish, it truly was them against the world. The first time they burned together, they _burned —_ high and bright and powerful and nothing Gueira thought was humanly possible.

When they heard rumors of a group that would fight for them, the same way they fought for each other — they would be fools to not seek it out, wouldn’t they?

“Remember our first time?” Gueira muses, sliding his hand higher.

Meis grabs his hand and squeezes, hard. “Of course I do, dumbass.” He wrenches Gueira’s hand away from his leg, but his narrowed eyes sing colors of intensity and heat.

“You shoulda said no, babe. I was gonna jog your memory.” Gueira leans in, matching him degree for degree.

Meis catches another wandering hand without breaking eye contact. “My memory’s fine. You’re the one who keeps forgetting how to shut up.” He butts their heads together.

Gueira grins. “You’re right. I think I need a demonstration.”

Meis rolls his eyes, but kisses him anyway.

When they wake up, tangled and cramped and sore, streams of sunlight are angled differently on the floor and everything is dimmer.

“I think a scorpion stung my ass,” Meis says, voice cracked and coarse from sleep.

Gueira yawns. “Don’t worry babe, I’ll suck the poison out.” He yelps when Meis spanks him.

They dress leisurely. Meis is popping his head through his shirt when he catches Gueira stuffing his pockets with packs of cigarettes.

“Babe,” Meis says. “If you really want cigs, we can stop and get a brand that doesn’t taste like battery acid.”

Gueira flips a pack in his hand, contemplative. He sighs and restocks the shelf, emptying his pockets. “I just want ‘em ‘cause they’re here.”

“Atta boy.” Meis slaps him on the shoulder. “If Boss ever asks, we’re still two years clean.”

* * *

An inconsiderate finger poking Gueira’s cheek jostles him out of light slumber. He swats at it and rolls away as far as he can under a seatbelt’s restraint.

“Gueira.” A jab at the sensitive spot on the back of his neck now. The shrug of his shoulders is involuntary. “We’re on E.”

Gueira opens his eyes at that. He surveys the surrounding landscape with bleary eyes. He can’t see much in the lowlight of dusk, and the high beams’ small radius is the only source of luminosity against the slow fade of natural light. The road stretches out ahead of them — quiet, dark, empty. No sign of civilization in any direction.

Gueira closes his eyes. “Don’t cars still run for a few miles on E? We’re fine.”

It’s true; they continue on for a few more miles, and they’re fine. Until they aren’t, car jumping and sputtering just long enough for Meis to pull off the road before it rumbles and shudders and dies.

Meis pulls the key out of the ignition. The air conditioning and headlights cut off, and they’re left in silence and darkness.

“Huh,” Gueira says.

“I guess it couldn’t be helped,” Meis says.

“You don’t sound worried. Isn’t this an emergency?”

“Yeah. Neither do you.”

“Shouldn’t we be panicking?”

“Pretty sure that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to do in an emergency.” Meis drums his fingers on the center console. “Wanna sleep under the stars?”

Gueira sets up reflective warning triangles behind the car while Meis lays a blanket in the sand. The nighttime desert breeze is cool enough to raise goosebumps, but temperate enough they aren’t worried about dying of exposure.

Gueira would be lying to say he hasn’t passively hoped something like this would happen. He’s craved the rush of an emergent situation recently, missed the adrenaline spike when circumstances turn from bad to worse to dire. For so many years he thrived on urgency; an adaption that helped him survive. No longer needed, but it’s hard to shake. It’s branded into his sense of self.

He misses living on the cusp of danger like he’s got Stockholm. The only crises he deals with nowadays are suburban moms verbally eviscerating him over the drive-thru headset when he informs them the ice cream machine is unfortunately, still broken.

And really, the mundanity of food service never stood a chance at comparing to his old life. Back when he and Meis were alone, starving and shelterless; fighting to keep each other alive, if only for one more day. But right here, right now — stranded and pondering how they’ll manage to refuel when there’s no town for miles — is brushing up against that old feeling. It’s the closest Gueira has felt to that primal drive to _live_ in years.

Gueira swirls patterns in the sand beside him, and it’s cool between his fingers. The stars are so bright. He hasn’t seen the night sky unpolluted by a fog of light pollution in a long time.

They end up shoulder to shoulder, arms raised and hands outstretched, drawing lines with their fingers across the sky. They settle into the gentle rhythm of conversation, of constellations and mythos and what else besides the Promare must exist beyond the scope of the known universe. It’s comfortable to simply exist together; the two of them, the moon, and the stars.

Words dwindle. Conversation quiets to a sparse comment here or there. They tire of the celestial and turn on their sides to face each other. Close, breath intermingling.

Meis folds his arm under his head, face hidden in his elbow. Gueira tucks a cascading strand of hair behind his ear just to see the arch of his high cheekbone. He uses the motion as an excuse for his fingers to make an appreciative journey behind his head, down the curve of his neck, over the expanse of his broad shoulder. He strokes his arm, thumbing over the tapered lines of faded ink, back and forth.

“Hey,” Gueira says. His thumb makes another pass as Meis slides a lazy eye open. “What do you think about getting our tattoos touched up?”

Meis shifts to look at Gueira carefully. “What, like renew our vows?”

Gueira flushes under the scrutiny, though he was aware of the implication. “I guess, if you want. I’m just worried they’re gonna fade soon. We could get them done professionally so they really do last forever.”

Gueira is bothered by their tattoos fading, more than he likes to admit. The break down of ink feels too much like the erosion of a memory; of the night they marked each other with a tangible and enduring symbol, high on adrenaline and dumbstruck love. A safety pin and a stolen vial of India ink the vessel of their vows, pressing as deep and far as they could tolerate. Over and over, until skin pinkened and ink dried up. Trying to create through skin and flesh, something that would last until the end of Them. Until ashes.

And now they’re faded and frayed and bleeding into the skin around them. Gueira isn’t sure what he’ll do if parts of the original linework disappear completely.

“That takes away the sentimental value, doesn’t it?” Meis drags a hand between them. His fingertips drift along the collar of Gueira’s shirt.

“I guess,” Gueira mumbles as Meis dips to press his lips over the strokes he put there so many years ago.

Gueira cradles the back of his head, calloused hands catching on smooth strands of hair. And Meis' eyes are on him, staring from his spot under his chin. The moonlight reflects the light blues in his eyes, a night sky in their own right. Meis has always looked at him like this. With love, always love; tinged around the edges with longing. An ache. A challenge.

It takes Gueira’s breath away. He’s so beautiful. Always has been. But in the sand and under the open sky, it’s far too similar to how things used to be.

So he kisses him, all teeth and tongue and fervor.

And just like old times, they succumb to desperation and cave to the urge. To each other. Forget what could happen, who they might lose, what if what if what _if —_ and focus on getting closer, and closer still. Slow down, speed up, vibrate on the same wavelength. Merge. Map routes over familiar terrain of skin and muscle and yield to the unplanned, the instinctual; hands and mouths, full-bodied gasps, locked eyes, entwined fingers.

And at its core — the fiercely protective drive to hold onto each other, for as long as fate allows it.

* * *

They don’t wake up until sun is high in the sky.

It’s hot.

Scorching, actually. Sand, pavement, leather seats — burning to the touch. The only place of respite is the blanket they slept on, confining them to a tiny island of fabric on the side of the road.

It’s been years since either of them have felt excessive heat. The Promare kept them at a constant homeostasis; Burnish always felt comfortable despite burning at a few hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Beyond that, Promepolis summers simmered rather than broiled, and they’ve been living there since the departure.

Despite everything they’ve tackled together, this is a first. The knowledge that Meis gets testy and irritated when he’s overheated is not something Gueira expected to learn on this trip.

“I think I’m dying,” Gueira whines.

“It’s not so bad if you don’t complain.”

“Can’t we turn on the AC in the car?”

“We’re not running down the battery just because you’re hot.” His tone is patronizing, but beads of sweat run down his temple.

They share the last bit of water from a bottle thrown in the back seat. Gueira lets Meis eat an M&M he finds on the floor mat. They finally start planning escape routes.

“Should we call Boss?”

Meis groans. “He would never let us live it down. Do we even have a signal out here?”

“Hold on— Huh.” Gueira frowns at his phone. “‘iPhone needs to cool down before you can use it.’”

“Of fucking course.” Meis draws sweat-matted hair into a ponytail, away from where it clings to his neck and back. Gueira pulls off his shirt away from his sticky chest.

In time they both strip down to their underwear. Gueira draws an SOS in the sand.

A car blessedly appears in the distance right before Gueira was about to suggest eating their shoes for sustenance. They hurriedly put on their sweatsoaked clothes. Gueira stands in the middle of the road and waves his arms.

The motorist is kind enough to stop before he runs Gueira over. He knows the area better, and knows there’s a town 15 miles ahead. He disappears and returns within the hour with a full gas can. No payment required; he’d seen them on the news back in the day, when they did that interview with Lio about the reconstruction effort.

“You have a memorable face,” he says with eyes on Gueira’s hair, tangled and frizzed out with sweat and sand.

Gueira tries to indulge himself in air conditioning while Meis fills the tank, but the vents spit tepid air until Meis turns on the engine. When his phone finally cools down, he sets the GPS to fast track them out of the fucking desert.

“Meis.” It has been silent until this point. “Did we almost die?”

“What? No.” Meis squints at the road. “I don’t think so?”

“We ran out of water.”

“We would’ve started walking and found a town eventually. Shut up.”’

Gueira shuts up.

* * *

Meis reconnected with his mother in the months after the Parnassus incident. It was simple to find her, really — now that they weren’t on the run and had access to technology, it was just a matter of finding her Facebook.

Soon enough they set up a weekly Sunday evening phone call; a casual way to ease back into each other’s routines and rebuild their relationship. It was difficult after so many years of separation, but originally stilted phone calls now drew on for hours. Gueira would retreat to the bedroom to give Meis privacy. He’d fall asleep to his relaxed voice, words indistinguishable, rising and falling and lilting through the hall.

Gueira figured it was safe to contact his family since the Promare were gone. Just once, he called the number he’s had memorized since childhood. It rang and rang and rang, and he waited and listened and hoped — until it reconnected to an operator. He hasn’t tried since.

Visiting Meis' mother was one of few planned stops for the entire trip. Gueira couldn’t say he was _ecstatic_ to meet his in-law, but he would do anything for Meis. He’s happy for him. He deserves this. Gueira has wanted this for him, since he learned Meis left home to protect her after he presented Burnish.

So he sucks it up and gives her a polite handshake, exchanges pleasantries, leaves his shoes by the front door, puts on house slippers. He’s going to be a perfect guest, goddamnit.

He keeps quiet over dinner and lets them catch up. Gueira can be quietly observant when he wants to. Up close, he can see the resemblance. She’s reflected in his formidable bone structure. They have the same pointy canines, the same smile. He can easily envision Meis with the same crows feet and marionette lines.

Meis has been tight-lipped about what his mother was like. Gueira didn’t give it much thought at the time. But her walls are adorned with crosses, crucifixes, religious verses in frames — and Gueira understands why Meis asked him to keep his jacket covering his chest. Why he introduces him as a friend.

“I don’t have to actually sleep in this, right?”

Meis locks the bedroom door gently. He eyes the sleeping bag clutched in Gueira’s arms, courtesy of his mother.

“Of course not. I just have a twin though. Dunno if we’ll both fit.”

“I don’t care! It’s the principle of the thing.” Gueira dumps the sleeping bag on the floor in a heap. “We’ve slept in tighter places, and you seemed to like it if I remember correctly!”

“Keep your voice down,” Meis hisses, more annoyed than concerned. Gueira rolls his eyes.

The decor of Meis' old bedroom is locked in time, an eclectic mix of teenage angst and budding interests of young adulthood. Gueira wanders to the desk and picks up a paper; typed, stapled, covered in red annotations. It’s dated in a year Gueira barely remembers living through.

“Wow. Your mom didn’t move anything in here, did she?”

“Guess not,” Meis says, coming up behind him. He reads the paper over Gueira’s shoulder, laughing little puffs of breath on his neck. “Damn, that’s garbage. Dunno how I graduated.”

“At least you _graduated_.” Gueira says, and he’s surprised by how defensive it comes out.

Meis threads his fingers through Gueira’s belt loops and tugs, a little _sorry, it’s okay._

“What’s the deal with your mom, anyway?” Gueira deflects. “What, she’s homophobic? You should’ve told me that.”

Meis sighs. “I know.” He slinks over to his childhood bed and sits on the edge. The old mattress sags and rusty springs groan under his weight.

Gueira sits beside him. He knows Meis well enough to just sit and listen. Meis thinks before he speaks. To say something now would mean as much as interrupting him.

“She’s not _that_ bad,” Meis says tentatively. “I didn’t think it would be best to come in guns-a-blazin’ and say ‘Hey mom, long time no see. I’m gay and this is my husband.’”

Gueira shifts anxiously and bedsprings sing along to his tune of discomfort.

“I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you." Meis rubs his hands together. "But it’s important to me that you know each other. You two are only family I have.”

“Meis…”

“I think I can get her to come around,” Meis says softly. “It just needs time. I know it sucks. But the first step is her knowing you and liking you and seeing how much you mean to me.”

“Shouldn’t that be _why_ she likes me? ‘Cause she sees how much _you_ mean to _me_?” Gueira doesn’t notice he’s crowding Meis until he lays back into pillows. “How much I adore you?”

Meis matches his uncharacteristic emoting with a demure smile. He reaches up and twists the ends of Gueira’s hair between his fingertips. Gueira shivers at the way it reaches his scalp.

“Just give it time, babe,” Meis says. He settles his hands on Gueira’s shoulder blades, closes his eyes. “In the meantime, you can show me all you want.”

“Meis,” Gueira says, fervent. “Can we—?”

Meis' eyes snap open. “On my childhood bed?” He pushes Gueira’s shoulder, hard. “Abso-fuckin-lutely not. Are you a freak?”

“No, babe— I mean, I _am_ trying to get freaky—“ A pillow to the face nearly sends him off the bed.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Meis grumbles. He claps twice, and all the lights in the room go dark.

Gueira crawls under the covers and laments for a few minutes, but gets over it quickly. Can’t win ‘em all.

As he’s drifting off, a kiss is pressed to his temple.

* * *

It’s the season when giant circus tents start popping up, giant banners leaving no doubt FIREWORKS are for sale. It’s the exact type of bombastic country-yeehaw clownery Gueira expected out of Texas, and it makes him grin.

It’s been ages since he heard pops in the dead heat of summer and wondered if it was fireworks or someone getting shot. Pyrotechnics and all associated fanfare are banned in Promepolis, save for smoke bombs and those little snakes that leave black marks all over the pavement. All of which suck shit, in Gueira’s informed opinion.

“You wanna set off fireworks, baby?”

“Huh?” Gueira realizes he’s been staring the whole time they’ve been stopped at this red light. Meis' mom is working, and this is the first day they've had to themselves.

Meis taps a rhythm of impatience on the steering wheel.

“Naw, ‘m just looking.”

“I don’t know why you still think you can lie to me.”

Gueira sinks into his seat with a bashful mixture of shame and affection. “Dunno babe.”

Meis sharply merges into the turn lane when the light turns green. They get honked at, and Gueira is in love.

They duck under the flap of the tent and it’s a different world. Plastic folding tables are covered in an endless supply of brightly labeled explosives, in all shapes and sizes and colors. Meis picks up boxes without hesitation.

“We need these. Just for our daily life,” Meis says before dumping a handful of cherry bombs in Gueira’s palms. “God. Don’t you love senseless vandalism?”

“Are these even legal anymore?” Gueira says down at the explosives in his hands.

“Probably,” Meis says with overwhelming nonchalance. “Holy shit, look at that one.”

Gueira follows the line of his pointing finger across the tent, to the biggest single firework he’s ever laid eyes on. Meis is already walking towards it with purpose, and Gueira has no choice but to trail him.

Meis whistles. “She’s a biggun.”

“No shit.” Gueira wraps his hands around its circumference, and his fingers don’t meet. “How did something this big pass ATF inspection?”

“Everything’s bigger in Texas.” Meis shrugs. “We’re getting it.”

“Wait a minute,” Gueira says, puzzle pieces fitting together in his brain. “You wanted to come here more than me, didn’t you?”

Meis glances at him before turning his attention back to the table. “Nah. You seemed like you could use some TLC in the form of blowing shit up.” He grins at Gueira over his shoulder. “It’s just a happy accident I like it too.”

* * *

They drive to the outskirts of town as the final rays of sunlight fan across the horizon. They find an empty lot and sit in chalky dirt, enjoying the natural show of sundown. The sky swirls in oranges and pinks and purples and dark blues before going dark, leaving the dim half moon to illuminate them in its weak glow.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” Gueira says.

Meis nods and pushes himself up. “You got the lighter?”

“Of course.” Gueira pulls it out of his pocket and flicks a flame to life to emphasize his point. “I’ve got two more. Just in case.”

“You? Being prepared? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Says the guy who didn’t bring emergency gas on a road trip.”

“Trunk’s small,” Meis mutters.

Meis hauls the bag of fireworks over and dumps the contents in a pile in the dirt. Gueira rummages to find the box of bang snaps. He pulls them out of the sawdust they’re packaged in, one by one. He keeps a pile of them cradled in his lap, throws them idly at the ground.

“I think things are going well,” Meis says as he sifts through their pile of explosives. “With my mom. She likes you.”

“Yeah?” Gueira lights the sparkler Meis points his way, cupping his hand around the tip as it bursts to life. “Think so?”

“Know so. We were talking about you at lunch today,” Meis says. “She said you remind her of dad.”

“Oh,” Gueira says. They both stare at the lucent sparks shooting off the stick. Directionless, wandering up into the air before skittering off into nothing.

Meis drops it to the ground before it’s done flickering. “I need something stronger.”

Gueira nods. He wants to see something ignite, detonate. Destroy itself.

Meis catches the lighter Gueira throws his way, and sets up a fountain firework a few feet away. He ducks away as it bursts into a geyser of spitting flame, reaching high into the night sky.

“That was fun,” Gueira says when it dies down.

“Okay. We’re talking about this now,” Meis says suddenly. They lock eyes for the first time since sunset. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but we need to.”

Gueira’s chest suddenly constricts tight and uncomfortable. “What?”

“We have the means, and we have the time. Do you want to see your family?”

Gueira grinds a snap between his fingers just to feel it pop.

“I don’t know,” Gueira says. “The last time I saw them was when they kicked me out.” He shakes his head and laughs, a short staccato.

He closes his hand around the weight of an object Meis places in his palm.

“I’ll light it,” Meis murmurs.

Gueira lobs the firecracker across the lot as soon as it's lit. The midair crack is satisfying. It feels like an accomplishment.

“You think they would hold it against you? Now?” Meis asks, eyes trained on trails of smoke whispering up and dispersing into the atmosphere.

“Dunno,” Gueira says to the moon. “It’s not like being Burnish was the only problem. It was just the last straw.” He swallows something building up in his throat. “There’s a reason I took your last name, after all.”

“Maybe it’s different now. Time changes people.” Meis lights a cherry bomb and tosses it across the lot. Gueira allows his senses to be enveloped in the split-second flash of light and eardrum-shattering bang.

“Sounds like a fuckin’ lie.” Gueira kicks his heel into the sand, and the collection of bang snaps in his lap roll off and scatter around him. “You’re my only family now, and I’ve been fine with that for years.”

“That’s not true,” Meis says gently. “You have Lio.”

“Lio is _like_ family, but he’s not _family_ family.”

“Found family is still family,” Meis chides. “You’ve been getting along with Galo lately. He’s like your brother-in-law.”

Gueira can’t help but let out a watery laugh at that.

“I know it doesn’t feel like it yet, but my mom is your family too.” Meis says gently. He presses his hand to Gueira’s cheek, rubs saltwater into his skin like it will soothe his heartache.

The touch of their lips is a base comfort; quick, consistently efficient.

“Here,” Meis says before he pulls away. He replaces his presence with a roman candle, pressing it into Gueira's arms.

Gueira nods, and Meis lights it. He holds it away from his body, the kickback of the vibrant pink flares vibrating through his hands. It’s getting close to something familiar and powerful; having the direction of the bursts under his control whispers along the edge of muscle memory.

“Feel better?” Meis asks, leaning back on his hands.

“Yeah,” Gueira says, and he means it. “Can we do the big one?”

Meis hums in affirmative and cracks his neck before standing. “It better be the best damn firework we’ve ever seen for twenty bucks.”

“Hey. Meis.”

The shuffle of shoes across dirt slow to a halt.

“I don’t want to see them.” Gueira says definitively. “You’re right. I’ve already got a family.”

Meis just smiles over his shoulder. He lights the firework.

The flame sizzles up the fuse. And for one frozen moment, as it reaches the core — it goes still, silent.

They sit back and watch it explode.

* * *

They leave Texas after a few days, with promises to return. Domestic flights are cheap, after all.

They take a day to drive through swampland. If they stop to eat fried crocodile, that’s their secret. For all intents and purposes, their pact with Lio to give up the stuff out of respect for Remi’s girlfriend is unbroken.

Gueira feels the moment they cross into Florida, an innate draw to the place he spent his first 16 years. Or maybe it’s the humidity.

At times like this he wishes he could drive, so Meis could relax and take in the scenery. God knows he deserves a break after all these miles.

But he can’t, so he settles for detailing Florida’s charm points over music softly bumping through the speakers.

They hit the coast after a few hours.

“I thought we agreed we weren’t seeing the ocean?”

“Changed my mind,” Meis says flippantly.

And they see a lot of it when they find themselves leaning over a pier, content to revel in the warm breeze kissing their cheeks, fresh and saline. Fishmongers clean their catches off the side, and sharks cluster to fight over what plops back into the ocean. Light from the midday sun reflects off the rippling water.

“I want to go home,” Gueira says.

“Me too,” Meis admits. Silence unfurls between them, washed over by the gentle lap of waves against the pier.

He looks at Gueira’s profile, hair glowing in ruddy oranges and dark reds in the frame of sunlight. “Finally wear yourself out?”

“Guess so.” Gueira’s eyes travel down the coastline.

“Never heard you call Promepolis “home” before.”

Gueira’s nose crinkles. “Didn’t mean the city. I just mean back in one place. With you. We could live in a box and I’d call it home.”

“Isn’t that why we came out here? We were getting antsy in one place.” Meis splays his hand over splintered wood and traces the grain with his fingertips.

“I mean, yeah. Sort of. Well, not really—“ Gueira lets out a ragged sigh. “I’ve felt fuckin’ displaced ever since— you know.”

Meis nods, curls his hand in on itself.

“I thought being on the move would feel like going back to normal. Maybe it’s stupid—“

“No,” Meis cuts him off. “I did too.”

“Right?” Gueira enthuses. “I mean, it _was_ just like old times, and that’s great but— “

Gueira quiets, looking back into the water. “That’s the problem. It’s _old times_ , Meis. It’s not us anymore and I don’t know what to do.”

Gueira startles at Meis' urgent grip on his forearm. “I hate that you just made a whole lot of sense.”

“Huh?” Gueira sweeps Meis' bangs up off his face so he can see both of his eyes, beautiful and intense.

“We’re stagnating,” Meis says. “You know how Boss is getting on. Doing stuff I’ve never seen him do before. The type of stuff he said he wanted to do when we had a permanent Burnish settlement.”

“Are you talking about the knitting?”

Meis rolls his eyes. “That’s just one thing. But he’s changed. We haven't done anything to get us out of the past. We’re so entwined.” Meis reaches out to yank down the collar of Gueira’s shirt, exposing the faded ink. “We do everything together. Even stagnate.”

Gueira pries fingers off the neckline of his shirt and holds them. “What are we supposed to do then?”

“Something different,” Meis hums. “Something for the future.”

“Like what?”

Meis drops his hands. “Damn, I didn’t say I had any ideas. I just had this epiphany like, 30 seconds ago. Cut me a break.”

Their sudden laughter startles at least one fisherman out of a catch.

“You’re right, though,” Gueira hiccups over his last laugh, wiping a tear from his eye. “I know we’ll think of something good.”

“Of course,” Meis says. They both lean into the pier, eyes on the horizon. “Good thing we have time, right?”

“Yep,” Gueira agrees. “That’s one thing we finally have plenty of.”

* * *

Meis sells the Mustang.

He also gets a job at Forever 21, which is a far cry from the clothing designer he wants to be — but it’s somewhere to start.

Gueira slinks back off to McDonald’s after the funds from his reparation check start to dwindle. His manager welcomes him back with open arms since he’s the only one wiry enough to wiggle his way inside the ice cream machine to fix it. There’s talks of him becoming assistant manager for that skill alone.

But now there’s an end goal in sight. Gueira has a cherry bomb saved for that goddamn machine the day he quits.

Meis surprises Gueira with a beginner’s tattoo kit. For a few weeks they sit together after work, practicing lines and swoops and swirls on oranges until they gain enough confidence to put it on skin.

Both tattoos end up with mistakes. A few overextended lines, a couple squiggles where a straight line should be; all caused by the shake of a suppressed laugh, or an involuntary jerk at a hot breath ghosting over skin.

“Damn,” Meis bites out at another line gone awry. “Sit still. I thought I told you to pretend to be an orange.”

Gueira lets out the full extent of his laugh when Meis pulls the tattoo gun away. “Sorry, babe. You keep being funny.”

“I just pointed out your nipples are hard as hell,” Meis murmurs. He lets Gueira finish another laugh before moving back in. “I really thought I wasn’t gonna butcher yours like you did mine,” Meis says as he carefully thickens a line. “Guess that’s the price of hubris. We’re gonna need coverups at this rate.”

“You’d never. You like things a little fucked up n’ rough around the edges. That’s why you like me, anyway.”

“Something’s wrong with you,” Meis mutters, but his laugh betrays him. Another mistake inks itself into Gueira’s collarbone.

The tattoos end up looking pretty damn good, if Gueira says so himself. They aren’t perfect, but neither were the old ones. Neither are they.

If anything, the imperfections are just a reminder of this new memory. Both shirtless, poised over each other with a tool that could be classified as a weapon, on the floor of an apartment they’re barely affording because they keep spending their feeble paychecks on stuff like tattoo kits and a downpayment on a motorcycle. On adult GED classes.

Lines that used to symbolize their inevitable end, now a mark of their endless future.

And finally — as permanent as they are.

**Author's Note:**

> chicken shitting is a real thing country bumpkins take bets on and i’m qualified to give that information. the fucking ball of twine is real too


End file.
